The hum of the ship had changed.
It wasn't subtle. It was louder now, rougher. Like the metal itself was starting to protest against the vacuum it pierced through. Or maybe it was just Betty, gagging again.
She clutched her stomach with both arms, her body curled in her seat like the gravity had turned on her insides. The flight wasn't built for human pacing. Nothing in our training prepared us for this kind of acceleration. Her breath came out in short, ragged bursts.
"I swear to God, Kevin," she rasped, "if you say 'we're almost there' one more time, I'm going to use your helmet as a barf bag."
Kevin didn't respond right away.
His eyes were glued to the trajectory screen, hands gripping the sides of the terminal, not to use it, just to keep them from shaking.
"You alright?" I asked Betty gently, leaning forward, trying to ignore the sting of pressure behind my own eyes.
"No," she snapped. "And I'm not gonna pretend. We're burning through space like a goddamn torpedo and he—" she jabbed a finger toward Kevin "—still hasn't told us what the actual plan is."
I turned to Kevin. "So let's try this again — real slow this time."
He glanced over, jaw clenched.
"Are we landing... just to die?" I asked. "Or is there an extraction plan we missed in the chaos back there? Is this a suicide stunt Clifford dreamed up so we could die on Martian soil and he could sell it as a noble sacrifice?"
Kevin exhaled shakily. "It's not like that."
"No?" I asked. "Then what is it like? Because to me, it feels like we got dumped into the deep end of hell and someone's filming the splash."
Kevin's mouth opened, but he hesitated. Not because he didn't have an answer — but because he wasn't sure which one to give.
"They gave me kits," he said, voice low. "Equipment disguised as orbital drone payloads. I only knew a piece of the plan. They said… if we survived the transit… we could make it work."
"Make what work?" Betty hissed, now pale and sweating. "Breathing? Eating? Not being shredded alive in a windstorm?"
"They told me we had enough...enough to set up a small survival system. It's hidden in those drone casings."
My brow furrowed. "You're talking like they planned this. Like someone thought we'd land and just… build a cottage on Mars?"
"I didn't know they'd launch us this fast," Kevin admitted, rubbing his temples. "But I knew they were done waiting for red tape. Clifford didn't want another ten years of hypotheticals. He wanted action. He said… 'if people don't go, we'll never know what to build for them.'"
"So he sent us like crash test dummies with microphones?" I muttered.
"I don't know what's real anymore," Kevin whispered. "All I know is, they promised I'd be remembered if this worked. That maybe I'd lead the first Martian outpost. I thought it'd be months away. I didn't think we'd be this, now."
"Unbelievable, you entered with us, what are you even saying?" I said, shaking my head. "You risked our lives because they offered you a legacy?"
He looked away.
Betty coughed into her glove, spitting saliva onto the floor. "But… if you're right. If there's tech hidden in those payloads… can we actually survive?"
"Maybe," Kevin said. "They trained us for Mars simulations on Devon Island, remember? We've done drills in subzero, isolation protocols, tented comms, long-range power deployment. If we can find shelter, establish heat, ration the hydro kits—"
"Stop," I said, narrowing my eyes. "Are you pitching this like a survival reality show for the entire world?"
Kevin didn't respond.
Because he didn't need to.
He was. Whether consciously or not, Kevin had begun building the script. The heroic trio. The brave betrayal. The high-stakes gamble. I could already see the PR headlines: 'Pioneers of Mars: The Unplanned Mission That Changed Everything'.
And worse, I could see Betty starting to buy in.
"I mean…" she began, voice trembling, "maybe we can do this. Kevin has some preparation. We've got emergency rations, solar, atmo sensors—if it's really Mars out there, then we've trained for worse."
I turned to her, stunned. "Are you siding with him?"
"I'm siding with not dying, Eren," she snapped. "You think I'm thrilled about any of this? But if this lunatic brought stuff that helps us live more than twenty minutes out there, I'm going to listen."
I stared between them — Betty clinging to survival instinct, Kevin drunk on ambition, and me caught between reason and the horrifying realization that Earth hadn't just thrown us away.
They were watching.
The Nyx jolted.
Every warning panel lit up again, only this time it wasn't a malfunction — it was atmosphere.
I looked at the nav screen. Red dust swirled in a barely-there image.
We were breaching the upper edge of Mars.
Kevin's eyes were wide now. "We're entering descent corridor."
The ship shuddered again. Systems began adjusting, venting, correcting.
And then I saw it.
Just beneath the main console, a faint green light blinked. Embedded in a housing panel I hadn't noticed before.
"Wait…" I leaned down, brushing frost away from the surface.
LIVE TRANSMISSION ACTIVE
I stared.
"Betty," I said, my voice hollow. "They're broadcasting this."
She turned toward me.
"What?"
I pointed to the panel. She followed my eyes, then froze.
"Oh my God," she whispered.
I stood. "They've been recording us since launch."
Kevin looked, didn't even blink.
"Of course they are," he said. "This isn't just a mission. It's history."
"Or a fucking ratings play," I muttered.
But there wasn't time to debate. The hull creaked violently as the ship's shielding braced for re-entry. Flames licked the edge of the viewports.
We were really doing this.
Betty stumbled toward the emergency locker. "Suits. Get the suits."
Kevin pulled up the pressure calibration software. "We've got eight minutes to prep. Once we land, we establish perimeter, locate the drones—"
"Survive first," I snapped. "Narrate later."
Betty nodded, eyes hard. "We can hate each other later. Right now, we get ready."
Outside, the sky turned red.
And the Nyx began its final descent.